As the young director crossed the lobby, the Count was of the opinion that Anna looked every bit as radiant as she had in 1923. But the moment the director disappeared into the street, the actress’s smile and shoulders drooped. Then having passed a hand across her brow, she turned from the door—only to meet the gaze of the Count.
In an instant, she drew back her shoulders, raised her chin, and strolled toward the staircase. But having mastered the art of descending the stairs to a gathering of admirers, she had yet to master the art of ascending the stairs alone. (Perhaps no one has.) On the third step, she stopped. She stood motionless. Then she turned, came back down, and crossed to where the Count was standing.
“Whenever I am in this lobby with you,” she said, “it seems that I am destined to be humiliated.”
The Count looked surprised.
“Humiliated? You have no cause to feel humiliated, as far as I can see.”
“I gather you’re blind.”
She looked toward the revolving door as if it were still spinning from the young director’s exit.
“I invited him for a nightcap. He said he had an early start.”
“I have never had an early start in my life,” said the Count.
Offering her first genuine smile of the evening, she waved a hand at the stairs.
“Then you might as well come on up.”
At the time, Anna was staying in room 428. It was not the finest room on the fourth floor, nor was it the worst. Off the small bedroom, it had a small sitting area with a small couch, a small coffee table, and two small windows looking over the trolley tracks on Teatralny Proyezd. It was the room of one who hoped to make an impression when she could not easily afford to do so. On the coffee table were two glasses, a serving of caviar, and a bottle of vodka in a bucket of melting ice.
As they looked over this little mise-en-scène, she shook her head.
“That’ll cost me a pretty penny.”
“Then we mustn’t let it go to waste.”
The Count drew the bottle from the ice and poured them both a glass.
“To old times,” he said.
“To old times,” she conceded with a laugh. And they emptied their glasses.
When one experiences a profound setback in the course of an enviable life, one has a variety of options. Spurred by shame, one may attempt to hide all evidence of the change in one’s circumstances. Thus, the merchant who gambles away his savings will hold on to his finer suits until they fray, and tell anecdotes from the halls of the private clubs where his membership has long since lapsed. In a state of self-pity, one may retreat from the world in which one has been blessed to live. Thus, the long-suffering husband, finally disgraced by his wife in society, may be the one who leaves his home in exchange for a small, dark apartment on the other side of town. Or, like the Count and Anna, one may simply join the Confederacy of the Humbled.
Like the Freemasons, the Confederacy of the Humbled is a close-knit brotherhood whose members travel with no outward markings, but who know each other at a glance. For having fallen suddenly from grace, those in the Confederacy share a certain perspective. Knowing beauty, influence, fame, and privilege to be borrowed rather than bestowed, they are not easily impressed. They are not quick to envy or take offense. They certainly do not scour the papers in search of their own names. They remain committed to living among their peers, but they greet adulation with caution, ambition with sympathy, and condescension with an inward smile.
As the actress poured some more vodka, the Count looked about the room.
“How are the dogs?” he asked.
“Better off than I am.”
“To the dogs then,” he said, lifting his glass.
“Yes,” she agreed with a smile. “To the dogs.”
And so it began.
Over the next year and a half, Anna would visit the Metropol every few months. In advance, she would reach out to some director she’d known. Admitting with some relief that her days of appearing in films were behind her, she’d invite him to be her guest at the Boyarsky. Having learned her lesson in 1928, she no longer arrived at the restaurant first. By means of a small gratuity to the girl in the coatroom, she ensured that she would arrive two minutes after her guest. Over dinner, she would confess that she was one of the director’s greatest fans.